When It Snows Again
by CoyGeek38
Summary: After the Second War, Hermione and Ron return to an empty Burrow.


I've been working on this one since July and had hoped to finish it in time to post it for Christmas, but that didn't quite pan out. I only finished it about a week ago. Then with the ice storm the ran through my town, we lost power and I was unable to post it as soon as it was done. But finally, here it is, my holiday tragedy... Hope you enjoy.

When It Snows Again

The car slowed to a halt, tires crunching softly on the pebbly dirt of the drive. Hermione put the car in park and looked up at the preposterous-looking building. She had not seen the Burrow in two and a half years, and she was relieved and pleased to see it still looked essentially the same. The yard was quieter, of course, and so was the house. But this alone did not detract enough from the old charm and memories in the ramshackle building that had once been her second home.

She turned to Ron in the passenger seat, and her mouth split into a smile. His reply was weak but enough to satisfy her. She unlatched her safety belt, zipped up the front of her coat, and opened the car door.

The cold air hit her lungs, and she breathed it in deeply. The other car door closing signaled to her that Ron had climbed out as well. Small icicles hung from the many awkward eaves, and the shutters were all closed. Ron was looking up at the house with a slightly pained expression.

"Well, let's not just stand here in the cold," he said and moved to the back of the car. Hermione followed, a little bounce in her step, and opened the back hatch. They had packed light, not planning a very prolonged stay. With each a trunk, they forwent the walk to the front door and headed for the side entrance to the kitchen.

Ron grabbed the knob, but it refused to open.

"The key, Ron."

"I know, I know," he said with a small, insincere laugh and dug in his coat pocket. "I'm just not used to the house being locked."

The kitchen was coated with a thick layer of dust. A deadly silence enveloped the house.

"We've got a lot of cleaning up to do to get this place in the shape it was," Hermione said. "It hasn't had a caretaker for quite a while."

"Just keep in mind why we're here. This isn't a mini-break, you know."

"Oh Ron, why do you have to be such a downer? The Burrow could be like a home again."

"Alright, but first things first, we should get a little settled in. I guess you can have Ginny's old room."

A startled, injured look darted across Hermione's face and was quickly gone again. Ron saw it though. "Whose room would you rather sleep in?"

Forgoing the "in that case," she said, "Ginny's room will be just fine."

"Do you need help with your trunk?"

"No." And as an afterthought, "Thanks."

Alone up the uneven staircase, Hermione set down her trunk just inside the door of Ginny's bedroom. It seemed to be just how she left it (of course, it would be), only considerably dustier. Every surface was littered with the girl's things: clothes on the floor and chair, books stacked and open on the desk, stuffed animals on the bed, and trunk at the foot of the bed spilling school supplies, all collecting dust. Hermione stood there for several minutes in a half daze before moving wholly into the room. Careful steps let her avoid treading on some once-cherished possession, and so slowly she made a circuit of the room, fingers trailing along the desktop and bedposts.

Hermione nearly jumped when Ron knocked at the open doorframe. "You alright?"

"Yes, of course," she said, though the easiness sounded forced. "Shouldn't I be?"

"Right. Nearly everything in the kitchen's expired. We'll have to go down to the village for dinner."

Hermione nodded. She looked at the deadened state of things around her. "Shall we get started tonight or wait 'til morning?"

Ron looked about her as well, thinking. "Maybe we should tidy up a bit in a few rooms before bed."

Hermione knew he was choosing his words delicately, not wanting to loose hysterics from either of them. She knew what he meant to say was something like "Let's tidy up the rooms we'll sleep in first so we don't loose any rest for grief and overwrought nerves." She agreed.

"I'll probably spend all tomorrow just laundering all Ginny's clothes." She laughed. He tried to smile.

"I'll leave you to it, then," he said and started to leave.

"Where are you going?" The question came out lazily.

"The kitchen again, I think."

"Okay." He disappeared down the corridor, and Hermione's eyes returned to Ginny's room. She spotted a clothes hamper by the small wardrobe and began gathering up blouses and stockings and depositing them in the basket. Relatively quickly, the floor was cleared and the hamper was overflowing.

Hermione sat on the bed, and dust rose from the quilt. It too would need washed. She drew back the quilt, filled as it was with Molly Weasley's loving touch, and folded it up on top of the clothes hamper. The old stuffed bears and elephants and other animals, she put temporarily in the wardrobe. She shook out the sheet and remaining blanket but left them on the bed.

Feeling much better about the condition of the room, Hermione descended the stairs to the main floor and joined Ron in the kitchen. While she had been tidying upstairs, he had made some progress here. The waste bin was full and the cupboards bare. A few dirty dishes lay in the sink, awaiting the wash, and a fire had been started in the kitchen grate.

"That's loads better," Hermione said, coming to his side. She put her hands toward the thin flames. "We'll need all the fires tonight, I think."

Ron nodded vaguely. She sighed, seeking a topic Ron would show interest in. "How about that dinner you promised? Come on, get your coat."

The sun was low as the two walked down the deserted lane to the village of Ottery St. Catchpole. The small inn was warm and friendly, and the food was hearty. The two spoke little during the meal, focusing instead on the idle chatter of the dining villagers.

"Expect a bitter night, Jarvis," one man said.

"Had a fire in the hearth all day," Jarvis replied. "We're in for a bad winter."

"Saw smoke at the Weasley place not two hours ago," another man put in.

"Shame about those folks. A strange lot, but the good friendly sort."

Ron's face fell. "Maybe we should head back," Hermione suggested, and they took again to the quickly darkening lane. Ron, hands plunged deep into his coat pockets, hung his head, and whether staring at his steps or vaguely into space, Hermione could not tell. She continued to sneak side-long glances at his hunched form until it became too dark to clearly make out his face. But by this time, they were walking up the path to the Burrow and retreating from the bitter cold.

Ron dropped his coat on the back of a dining chair on his way to the den, Hermione following at a slower pace. Pausing under the archway, she watched as he moved purposefully about the room, lighting a fire with a flick of his wand and a muttered word, drawing open the heavy drapes, shaking dust-clouds from the sofa cushions. Hermione sighed and entered the room.

Taking her friend's hand, Hermione pulled him down to sit beside her. His eyes returned to the threadbare rug at his feet. "Ron, I know it still seems too close, but you have to be able to talk about it. Isn't two years…"

"No, two years isn't enough time," Ron replied curtly, quietly. "When it happens to you, try and tell me two years is enough." He pulled his arm away and slouched back into the deep cushions.

Knowing she would get no further along this line, Hermione turned thoughts to the chill in the house. "There should still be firewood stacked outside the pantry," he answered disinterestedly. "I'll bring some more in. Good night."

Hermione hesitated a moment, hovering above the twin bed before pulling back the blankets and lying down. She sighed, pulling the covers up to her chin. Even with the fires lit downstairs, her breath shimmered before her in the pale blue moonlight slanting through the window.

"This isn't going as well as I'd hoped," she whispered to herself and rolled onto her side.

Ron was already in the kitchen when Hermione came down the next morning. In fact, it seemed he hadn't left the room since the previous evening. A large stack of wood brought in from the wood pile was considerably cut into. The fire, though low, still burned in the grate. And Ron sat at the kitchen table, head in the crook of his folded arms.

Hermione smiled gently at his sleeping form and began rummaging as quietly as possible through the cabinets, examining all that was still edible that had escaped the rubbish bin the night before. Finally she pulled down a couple tins and put the kettle on.

Ron woke to the rich aroma of Lady Jane Grey. He lifted his head groggily, peering about him. Hermione laughed softly over her teacup at the red handprint on his face, the mark a memento of his awkward choice of sleeping arrangement.

"Have a biscuit," she offered and took a sip of her tea. "There's no milk, of course, but the tea's still good."

Ron stared at her blankly for a moment. In the haze of sleep that still hung over his eyes, the white light filtering through the dirty window behind her created a sort of halo in her wispy, fly-away curls. He blinked rapidly and reached for the shortbread. Looking back up from the plate and swallowing the first bite of dry biscuit, Ron spoke with effort, "It's snowing."

Hermione's eyes instantly widened, and she spun around to face the window. Outside, fat flakes floated down on a light breeze, already thickly dusting the ground. "Oh, Ron!" she cried. "It's perfect! Maybe we'll even have a white Christmas."

He reached for the tea and tried to clear his throat of the powdery crumbs. "Uh-huh," he replied blandly.

She sent him a jokingly withering glance over her shoulder and set down her teacup. Pulling her dressing gown tighter about her, she leapt toward the back door.

"Hermione!" Ron called after her, jumping out of his chair, "You can't go outside like that!" But she was already closing the door behind her. Ron grabbed the door and chased after her, all the while urging her to come back inside. He was still fully dressed from the previous day, but she was in her pajamas and house shoes. Hermione frolicked around the yard beyond his reach, twirling about in the crisp white veil. She laughed gaily, threw her head back, and smiled at him.

"Hermione, come on. It's cold out, and you're not properly dressed. You'll make yourself ill."

At this Hermione took hold of his hands and spun them about, snow gathering in their hair and on their shoulders. With one final spin, she let go, flinging them apart into bursts of laughter. In the bright morning sunshine that shimmered and glinted off every surface, their heavy breath came out in clouds and their cheeks flushed deeply.

Hermione stood, catching her breath and staring out at the countryside beyond the overgrown hedgerows. As she relaxed, the cold became apparent, and she wrapped her arms around herself.

At a touch at her shoulder, Hermione turned her head to look up at Ron beside her. His face was flushed, and the tips of his ears and nose were bright red with the cold. His eyes were clear and bore into hers. "Hermione," he said.

"Alright," she allowed, and they turned back toward the house.

The tea was lukewarm, so Hermione set the kettle near the hearth. "We'll need to go down to the market this morning," she said, "and get the boxes out of the car."

"Mmff," Ron said through the biscuit he had just stuffed in his mouth.

"I'm going to shower and dress, and then we can go." Ron nodded, and she headed for the stairs.

Nearly three centimeters of snow had accumulated on the hard ground when Hermione and Ron began their walk back to the Burrow. The cozy houses of Ottery St. Catchpole fell behind them, smoke rising lazily from the chimneys to join the grey clouds. Hermione sighed, adjusting the sack of groceries in her arms.

"Do you want me to take that for you?" Ron asked, moving the sack he carried to one arm.

"No, I can manage," she replied. Inhaling deeply, she let the air out slowly with a smile. "I love this time of year."

"Yeah."

"Everything is quiet and personal and clean. The way life should be."

The only sound was the soft crunch of the snow under their feet. The fields stretching out around them were smooth as blankets, unmarred by passers through, and latticed with stone walls. At the end of the lane, Hermione's little car sat under a layer of white beside the towering parody of a house. Beyond that, the garden hedges and lawn sloped down to the pond, thinly iced over.

"If it gets cold enough tonight, we could go ice skating tomorrow," Hermione said. "Oh wait, I don't have my skates with me."

"I'm sure Ginny would lend you hers—" Ron froze as soon as the words had left his mouth. His eyes were wide, staring blankly. His mouth hung open.

"Oh Ron!" Hermione cried, stopping to look at him, a shocked and pained expression on her face as well. With her free hand, she gently touched his arm. He met her eyes and smiled weakly, as was his wont to do of late.

"Don't worry, 'Mione," he said, almost choking on the words. He squeezed her hand. "I'm alright."

They fell into step side by side, silenced by the threatening tears and the rift that had always been between them. Their hands remained clasped as they walked, a tremulous effort to bridge the gap.

When the groceries had been stowed away, the two ate lunch and then returned to the task of cleaning out the house. In the master bedroom, Hermione emptied bureau drawers into large cardboard boxes, while Ron pulled hat- and shoeboxes from the upper shelf in the closet. They worked in silence until a crash sounded in the closet. Ron cursed loudly, and Hermione turned to see what all the noise was about. Inside the closet, Ron sat on his knees, leaning over the spilled contents of a hatbox, his back facing her.

"Ron?" she said softly, peering tentatively through the doorway. He did not respond. Then she saw his back quiver. She stepped closer, placing a hand on his shoulder, and he suddenly spasmed violently.

"I can't believe she kept all this rubbish," he croaked out.

Hermione dropped to the floor beside him, wrapping an arm around him and glancing at the mess in front of him. His fingers twiddled with the edges of a child's drawing of a round woman with vibrant hair. Underneath, it read, "I love you, mummy!" Also scattered around were holiday cards and bits of string, a tiny rubber dinosaur, a few cat's eye marbles. Hermione could see tears in his eyes.

"They're really gone, aren't they?" Ron swallowed and looked up into her face. She felt her stomach twist, and for just a moment, she thought she would be sick.

"Yes, Ron. They're really gone. All of them."

"Why couldn't they have just finished the job? They could have gotten rid of all of us. Why couldn't they have killed me, too?!" He dropped the drawing and slumped against her chest. "Why did they leave me alone?"

Hermione pulled him tight while she searched for the right words. They came easily now, though they had eluded her grieving heart for months. "No one can know for sure why things turn out the way they do. Our lives are dictated by forces beyond our comprehension. I want you to remember that for whatever turn of chance you were spared, their memory lives on in you. They're never really gone if they remain in your heart."

Ron's body shuddered again. She wiped at the tears on his face. "Come on, we only have so much time to finish before the auction."

He sat up and tucked the mess back in its box. "I think this might be the worst Christmas yet," he said as they rose from the hard floor.

The boxes of cherished items were stacked in the attic storage space, and larger boxes of clothes, odds and ends, and anything else not considered heavy furniture was carried downstairs and out to the little barn where the Ford Anglia had once been kept. All the bedrooms were completed in this manner, then dusted and mopped.

Ron and Hermione were exhausted when they quit for the day and retired to the sofa in the den. In front of the fire, they huddled under a thick quilt. When the daylight had faded and the only light I the room was from the hearth, Ron spoke. As though the episode in his parents' closet had broken through an invisible barrier, he could suddenly speak freely, as though the words were tonic for his heart. He never mentioned the manner in which they died; perhaps that was still too painful for him. Instead he reminisced over the past—the twins' best pranks, Ginny's silly shyness over Harry, his dad's fascination with all things Muggle, the time they had helped Harry get to the Philosopher's Stone, what would be the first of seven attempts against Voldemort.

It was very late when he fell quiet again. He moved to get up and go to bed, but Hermione caught his arm.

"Can I stay in your room tonight? It's a bit eerie sleeping in Ginny's room alone."

"Sure," he answered. "The cot Harry used to sleep in is still up there."

"Don't say that," Hermione laughed nervously. "I don't want to think about why Harry's not sleeping there and I am."

"Okay, the spare cot is still up there."

"Thanks."

He helped her to her feet, and they climbed the zigzagged stairs together up to the tiny attic bedroom. The room had hardly been touched since they arrived. There didn't seem to be as much need to. Ron pulled out the cot and layered it with thick bedding to ward off the cold night.

"You know what, Ron?" Hermione said in the dark.

"What?"

"Tomorrow's Christmas Eve."

"Seems like the worst time to be here," he said.

"But Christmas has always been wonderful in this house," she argued. "It can still be."

"Even with just us?" he asked doubtfully.

"Sure. We can get a tree and decorate."

"No presents, though," Ron insisted. "Okay?"

"Okay. Good night."

"Good night, Hermione."

"Careful, careful," Ron warned. "The door doesn't go any wider."

"Well, you're shaking needles everywhere." Ron frowned and pushed Hermione and the fir tree the rest of the way into the house. Hermione glared for a moment and then blew the hair out of her eyes.

They hauled the tree to the den, standing it in the corner beside the fireplace. A quick spell, and Hermione had the tree taking root on the floorboards. The popcorn they had strung that morning went on next, followed by the old fairy bulbs that glowed at night. The lights had started to wink in and out, but Ron preferred it that way. He could not remember a year when their glow was constant.

With looks of full satisfaction, Ron and Hermione stepped back to view their handiwork. "Just beautiful," Hermione sighed and slipped her hand into his. She felt him tense for a moment, but soon he relaxed into it.

As the sun fell beneath the horizon, the rainbow of fairy bulbs began to dimly glow. "You know what we should do?" Hermione said brightly, turning to Ron. "Go look at all the Christmas lights in the village."

She pulled him to the window that faced Ottery St. Catchpole. A little halo hung over the hamlet only a couple miles off. "I always loved the lights," she said wistfully.

"Let's go then," Ron announced.

Hermione's eyes shot up to his face. "Really?"

"Sure. It's not far, and we'll bundle up." He gave her a crooked smile. "Come on, get your coat."

They raced each other to the cloak room and threw on coats and hats, gloves and scarves. Ron bent to re-lace his boots, and Hermione used the time to beat him to the door. She flung it wide and leapt out into the blue-iced evening.

Ron caught her up at the start of the lane that led to the village, and they fell into a steady walk, hands buried in their coat pockets.

"The stars sure a bright tonight," Hermione noted, tilting her head back to take in the crisp, clear sky. "Like Heaven is competing with Earth for best lighting display."

"A feeble attempt on Earth's part," Ron quipped. They both laughed.

"There's Cassiopeia," Hermione pointed to the western sky, "above the Burrow."

"And if you follow it east toward Orion, you can just make out the Pleiades," Ron added.

"Couldn't avoid learning something up in the Astronomy Tower, could you?"

"Those were long nights up there," he replied, "when we all would have much rather had sleep."

"I loved astronomy class, for your information."

"You would have."

Hermione glared at him for a moment before returning her attention to the stars. "Orion's my favourite constellation, with Betelgeuse and Rigel and Bellatrix. And beneath him, you can just see Sirius at the horizon."

She stopped walking and fell silent. Ron turned to see what was wrong.

"Oh Ron, I miss them all so much." In the dim silvery light, he could barely make out a glimmer of tears. He pulled her against him. "Sometimes I just want to forget all about them, but not even the stars will let me!"

All of a sudden Ron was laughing, cutting Hermione's tears short. "What on earth, Ron?"

"I can't help it," he fumbled an apology through the laughter. "I was thinking about the big deal everyone made about how well we were holding up after it happened. They were so sorry for us, and so proud of us for how we were handling the situation." He paused to collect himself but couldn't stop laughing. Hermione frowned, wiping her eyes. "And here we are, long after the fact, breaking down in cupboards and empty country lanes. They all wished they were as strong as we were. And look at us!"

Hermione couldn't stop herself. He had killed the tears and wheedled the laughter out of her as well. He drew an arm around her, and they continued down the snowy road.

Just inside the precincts of town, the lights sprung up in the dark, cheerful and welcoming, lining ridgepole and gable, doorway and hedgerow. Christmas trees shone in myriad colours through front windows. Paused before a house lit in red and white, Ron broke the silence that had settled on them.

"One year my dad brought home a string of electric lights. One of the bulbs burned out, and all the bulbs following it went out. He spent the whole month trying to figure out the series circuit. Mum was furious."

"We used to go light-hunting when I was a little girl," Hermione explained. "After all the carolers had gone home and it was dark out, my parents and I would pile into the car and drive so slowly through neighbourhoods that were filled with Christmas lights. I always thought it was like entering some new magical world from one of my books…." She laughed softly to herself. "Magical. I never thought I would see the things I've seen and do the things I've done. I never would have imagined."

She squeezed Ron's hand and sighed, staring emptily at the rows of lights. And suddenly her lips were hot. It ended as suddenly, and Ron shot up straight-backed again. Hermione touched gloved fingers to her lips and smiled.

"There's something about these lights," Ron said vaguely. His eyes went toward the sky again. "There's no moon to overshadow them or the stars. Somehow, if that's possible, it makes you feel more…. Know what I mean?" He abruptly faced her.

"I think so."

Run pulled her into a hug. "I don't know what I'd do without you, Hermione. This would have killed me. All of it. Especially Christmas."

"No one should be alone this time of year," Hermione spoke into his shoulder. "And, no matter what, you'll never have to be."

They stood there for several minutes, immovable, their words hanging in the air like a palpable melody. The Christmas lights blurred around them into a delirious haze. Somewhere, someone was playing "I'm Dreaming of a White Christmas."

"Come on. Let's go home," Ron whispered.

"Will you take cocoa, Luna?" Hermione asked, setting down the serving tray in the den and pouring cups for herself and Ron.

"Please," their old friend replied, twiddling with the hem of her jumper. She took the steaming beaker handed her and stared contemplatively at the tree in the corner of the room. "Lovely tree," she commented mildly. "Father and I never put up a Christmas tree. The smell attracts long-nosed coal-sprites. I see you've not put up any mistletoe. Wise decision. No need for gnargles, I say."

Ron chuckled softly. They had not seen Loony Lovegood in quite a while.

At the mention of mistletoe, Hermione glanced fleetingly at Ron and blushed slightly at the memory of the little kiss the evening before. There had been no awkwardness on the walk home like she would have expected to follow their first kiss, but she had been a bit nervous climbing into bed, knowing that he was so close and, like her, half-dressed in the dark room. Her beaker quivered in her hands at the thought, and she took a deep breath to steady herself.

"Just grand you could come for lunch on such short notice, and on Christmas, Luna," Ron said, filling a lengthy silence.

"No trouble at all," she said. "The house is just the other side of the village, and father and I don't get much company. It would be nice to have Weasleys as neighbours again."

"Never subtle, are you?" Hermione said, coming out of her reverie like a trance lifting.

"As always," Ron added.

"Why would you ever want to sell this place?" Luna asked bluntly, her large moon-like eyes touching everything they could reach from her spot on the sofa.

Hermione and Ron looked meaningfully at each other for a moment before she spoke. "Just being here these few days has been trying."

"Everything has been a reminder of who fell in the War, who isn't here anymore," Ron elaborated. "It's been difficult to think about them each day as if nothing has changed and then to suddenly remember their faces pale and blank as the damn curses hit them and know they're gone."

Hermione felt the tingle in her nose of tears forming, and she slipped her hand into Ron's. He met her eyes with a sad smile.

"It takes time," Luna replied. "You can't run away and deny the wound, or it will never heal. You have to face the pain and find what soothes it." Luna emptied her beaker and set it on the coffee table. She stood, looking around the house almost reverently. "This house could be the greatest healer. I wouldn't let go of it for anything."

She turned to face the other two. "Thank you for inviting me over. I have to head back now."

"I'll get your coat," Ron offered and headed to the cloakroom.

At the door, Luna smiled dreamily at Ron and Hermione. "Together, father and I can get through anything. We lean on each other so we can stand alone. And we are strong. Happy Christmas."

"Happy Christmas," they replied as Loony Lovegood turned and started down the walk. They watched her until she had disappeared from sight.

"Is it strange that everything she said makes perfect sense?" Ron asked, closing the door.

"She has her moments," Hermione replied. "Sense or no, she'll make you think."

"Well, sometimes I prefer not to."

"Come on, Ron. I'll wash if you'll dry." Hermione steered him toward the mess left in the kitchen.

Over the warm soapy water, Hermione let her friend's curious words sink in. The repetitive cyclical motion of her hand and the sponge dipping in and out of the wash water sent all other thoughts from her mind's reach.

"Hermione?" She snapped back into the kitchen. "What's on your mind?"

"Huh?"

"You've washed that plate three times now."

"Oh," she said, and she rinsed the dish and handed it over to Ron.

"What're you thinking about?" he asked, toweling it dry and stacking it with the others.

"Just something Luna said," she answered, her hands pausing with another plate halfway into the wash water. Ron waited expectantly for her elaboration.

"Well," she was hesitant. "It's been two years since… since the end of the war. And all this time, we've not been able to talk about it, neither of us. Not until we came back to the Burrow."

"But you—"

"I tried," she interrupted. "Believe me, I tried to talk it through, to reason it out, but there was no reason to be had. The right words didn't come until we were back in this house."

Ron nodded, his head bowed slightly.

"Luna was right," Hermione continued. "We've been hiding so long, as if the war was still raging, in denial of any change it has brought. We avoided anything that didn't match what we wanted to hear, how we wanted to feel. But I swear I could feel it festering just under the skin."

In the short silence that followed, Hermione scrubbed several dishes vigourously and passed them to Ron, who remained stoic, focused on her words and the assembly-line action.

Suddenly, Hermione stopped washing, and the rhythmic system faltered and died. She dropped the sponge and stared out the window above the wide sink. "This house, decked in snow, has a strangely cleansing quality about it," she said wistfully.

She looked to Ron as he stowed the clean dishes in the cabinets. He met her gaze when he felt her eyes on him. "Why didn't we come sooner?" Her voice caught in her throat, and she succeeded in fighting back tears. "It's been sitting here for two years, waiting for us. Why did we wait so long?"

Ron took her hands from the wash water and tenderly patted them dry, and then, the towel abandoned, he pulled Hermione against him. Her wrinkled, water-logged fingers clutched at his chest. She leaned into the warm hand that caressed her cheek and welcomed the velvet embrace of his lips.

When they parted a moment later, their foreheads still touching, Hermione asked earnestly, "We don't have to sell the house, do we?"

"We?"

"Together we can get through anything," she quoted, and they both chuckled.

Later that afternoon, Hermione found herself all but alone in the house. Ron had shut himself up in his room, and periodically she could hear shuffling and scraping on the wood floor. But mostly the Burrow was silent.

For what seemed like hours—and very well may have been—she stood staring at the towering grandfather clock that remained ticking away. The hands on its face stayed steady. The one labeled 'Ronald' perched at 'Home,' and the other eight hung despondently at 'Dead.' For a moment Hermione considered the hours all nine hands had hung in 'Mortal Peril.' Her heart and countenance were firm. She knew it to be as Luna said: The house was a healer of all wounds. There was only one necessary alteration to be made. Hermione retrieved her wand from the large front pocket of her jumper and flicked the tip at the face of the clock with a few choice words. The clock face shimmered a bit, and when the shimmering faded, the grouped hands pointed collectively to 'At Rest.'

"That's better," Hermione said, a smile forming.

A door closed loudly, and Hermione heard movement on the stairs. "Ron? What's going on up there?" she called and moved toward the staircase.

"Nothing," he yelled back. "Just cleaning up my room. Don't bother!" Another door, this time on the second floor, closed.

"Alright," she said skeptically. "I'm going for a walk!"

"Good! Okay!" The door closed again.

When Hermione returned to the house early in the evening, Ron was washing his hands in the kitchen sink. In the warm golden light from the hearth, his face shone with sweat. He looked up at the sound of her entry.

"Oi, help me make dinner?" he asked cheerfully.

"You're in a good mood," Hermione commented.

"Got all my work done."

"What were you doing up there?"

"I'll show you later." He dried his hands and disappeared into the pantry for a few seconds. He emerged with his hands full. "Here, peel these potatoes, will you."

"What are we having?" Hermione asked, taking the potatoes and seeking out a paring knife.

"Shepherd's pie with potato dumplings."

"Mmm. Your mum's recipe?"

"Is there any other?" And they set to work preparing the vegetables and a duck breast, laughing and teasing.

In the lull in excitement when everything was put in the oven, Ron gestured at the far wall. "Did you fix the clock?" he asked.

"Mhmm."

"Thanks."

Ron had cleaned himself up before dinner was ready, forbidding Hermione to go upstairs meanwhile. Captive in the kitchen, she had set the table and poured tall glasses of butterbeer for their quiet, personal holiday meal. Afterwards, they retired to the den to gaze a while at the Christmas tree and savour the cozy spirit.

They sat together on the sofa for maybe twenty minutes, her head on his shoulder, perfectly still. Hermione was on the brink of dozing off when Ron moved a bit so he could reach something on the sideboard that she hadn't noticed before in the dim light. Suddenly a small box with a simple ribbon round it appeared directly before her. She blinked a few times before looking up curiously at Ron and tentatively reaching for the box.

"I thought we agreed no presents."

"I couldn't help it. Go on, open it."

Hermione sat up on the edge of the sofa so she could move more freely. She pulled off the ribbon and lifted the lid of the box. Nestled inside on a white handkerchief was an old-fashioned brass key. She gave Ron a puzzled expression, meanwhile removing the key from its bed and running her fingers over its smooth surface. "Ron?"

"Come with me." He took her free hand and led her to the staircase. On the second floor they paused in front of the master bedroom. Ron sent her a look that asked if she was ready and then opened the door. He left her on the threshold and moved to the center of the room to show off his handiwork, a broad smile on his face.

Hermione looked about the room, studying the changes from how they had left it after its earlier cleaning. The bed was clothed in one of the enormous quilts. The walls and floor were no longer bare. The closet, whose doors were flung wide, was full. And their trunks sat against the far wall.

She looked back at Ron, then to the key in her hand, and then back to Ron. "What does this key open, Ron?" she asked nervously.

"The Burrow," he answered simply.

"The Burrow?"

"I owled the auctioneer this afternoon."

"We're not selling the house?" Her voice hitched up an octave.

"We're not selling the house."

In excitement, Hermione dropped the key and ran at him, leaping, and they fell back onto the bed in smothering fits of kisses and laughter. When finally there was a reprieve, Ron whispered, "Happy Christmas, 'Mione."

"This is the best Christmas gift ever, and I don't have anything for you." Suddenly a thought struck her, and she remembered the thing in her pocket. Holding it over their heads, she said, "I hope you don't mind gnargles."

Fin.

16


End file.
